SCENE I.

DO, good Henry, take my Cloak and Pattens, and wait for me at the Garden Gate; we ſhall very likely meet the old Knight again in our Way to the Houſe; and I know he won't be pleaſed with ſeeing thee in the Garden.

Let him chuſe; ſo long as I can be of any Service to you, I don't mind his huffing.

Thank you, Henry, but there can be no ſort of Danger.

The Yard Dog may frighten you; and if I was by, I ſhould be apt to give him a Flick for all his Worſhip.

No, no; he's always tied up in the Day-time, and you know there are no other Dogs belonging to the Houſe, but little Shock, and he has got no Teeth.

Well, I ſhould be ſorry to have any thing happen, and I not at hand to aſſiſt you.—But I won't be trouble⯑ſome; I hope I know better than ſo.—I'll take your Things then with me, and ſtay at the Gate we came in at.

Do ſo, my Lad; I'll ſoon return.

Oh! as for the Matter of that, uſe your Pleaſure; I don't think much of my time; I can't ſpend it better than in ſerving you.

SCENE II.

Hiſt! Clara, Mrs. Clara! Hem! Whither away ſo faſt, pretty Maid?

Oh! Sir Antony, I beg Pardon, I was ſtepping to the Houſe to enquire for Mrs. Olivia, who I under⯑ſtand is there.

Well, well, Mrs. Olivia won't be gone, and I ſhou'd be glad to ſpeak a few Words to thee, that's all.

What are your Commands, pray Sir?

I don't know what to ſay!—Why do you look ſo grave, Child? How do the good People, where you board, behave to you? I hope my Tenant Farmer Greygooſe and his Family do their beſt to pleaſe you; I ſhou'd be much offended with them if they did not.

Oh! Sir, they are the beſt Folks in the World, and the moſt obliging.

I hope you have recovered the Accident that has con⯑fined you in theſe Parts; the Hurt that you received by the Fall from your Horſe, I mean—(Ceremony upon theſe Occaſions is nothing more than a civil Excuſe for not being rude.)

Perfectly, I thank you, Sir Antony; inſomuch that I think of taking leave of the Farmer this very Day.

Marry Heaven forbid it! You wou'd not leave us, Clara; you muſt not—Stay, ſtay!—I have ſome⯑thing to ſay to you—Odſlids! what am I going to do?—Why I was thinking—Gadſbud! ſure I am run⯑ning mad.

Alas! poor Gentleman, I am afraid you are not well: Do, dear Sir, retire to your Chamber; wrap your Head up warm; your Imagination has been greatly heat⯑ed.—Shall I call any body to help you into the Houſe, Sir?

Well, go thy ways for this Time.—What a twitter has this put me into, and all to no purpoſe!—I did not think ſhe cou'd have reſiſted me; but, all things conſider'd, perhaps, 'tis better as it is; ſince 'tis more than probable, I might have found it eaſier to conquer her Scruples, than my own.

SCENE III.

Madam, ſhall I entreat your Patience for a few Minutes?—

Moſt readily, Child: what are your Commands?

I am an unhappy Woman; and as ſuch have a Claim to your Compaſſion.

I have conceived a very good Opinion of you, Clara, and am ſincerely ſorry for any Misfortune that may have happened to you. I hope the Hurt that you re⯑ceived by your Fall has had no worſe Effects than you at firſt apprehended.

Alas! Madam, my Injuries are of a different Na⯑ture. The Fall that I feigned to have receiv'd from my Horſe, as I was travelling homewards, was no⯑thing more than a contrived Excuſe for concealing my⯑ſelf in theſe Parts. In ſhort, Madam, I am not what I ſeem.

That I have long ſuſpected, tho' I forbore to be in⯑quiſitive.

You muſt know then, Madam, that I am a Woman of good Birth and conſiderable Fortune; my Name Amelia, the Daughter of Sir William Hartley. Perſe⯑cuted by my Family, who wou'd have driven me into the Arms of a Man, who is my mortal Averſion, I have taken Refuge here, under the Diſguiſe that you now ſee me wear.

Really, Miſs Hartley, your Diſtreſſes affect me, and I think you juſtified in the Step you have taken. Give me leave to aſk you what Preference directed you to this Neighbourhood?

Alas! Madam, your Queſtion is a natural one, but the ſevereſt that can be aſked me. What Preference directed me hither? it was a Paſſion ſo deeply rooted in my Heart, that no Time, no Injury can diſplace it. 'Twas Love.—How ſhall I excuſe it to you?—Unhap⯑py, diſappointed Love.—O Frederick, Frederick! dear falſe forgetful Youth!

What do I hear? Was Frederick, was young Withers thus ingrateful, thus inſenſible? Let me hope, Amelia, there is ſome Miſapprehenſion in this Matter: I know his Intimacy with your Brother, and that he made him a Viſit this Summer of ſome Continuance.

It was then, Madam, that my poor Boſom loſt that peaceful Indifference it had ever before enjoyed. My Family were then in Treaty with the Perſon I men⯑tioned to you before: intoxicated with his extravagant Offers, they omitted no Meaſures to engage me to ac⯑cept his Addreſſes; nay they were deſperate enough to employ Frederick to ſolicit me: but alas! their Advocate ruined their Cauſe; my Heart firſt con⯑ceived a Diſtaſte to Lord Wealthy, and the Interpoſi⯑tion of young Withers confirm'd me in my Averſion.

But did Frederick betray his Commiſſion by turning it to his own Advantage?

I cannot charge him with that Diſhonour; therein I muſt condemn myſelf: it was my own fond un⯑guarded [10] Heart that told him too plainly what it felt; till one fatal Moment my Father ſurpriz'd him kneel⯑ing at my Feet, and the next tranſported him from my Sight for ever.

Your Relation, my dear Amelia, is truly pitiable; but as you know not what Motives Frederick had for ſo abruptly leaving you, ſo I think you cannot poſitively charge him with Infidelity.

Dear Madam, how kindly you conſole me! I own to you I have ſome Hopes that Frederick ſtill remembers me, and ſtill loves me: thoſe Hopes conducted me hither; I find he is this Day expected home; this Event and Sir Antony's ridiculous Aſſiduities make it no longer poſſible for me to conceal myſelf at his Te⯑nant's. I muſt therefore retire till by ſome means I can diſcover the real State of Frederick's Heart. What I have to entreat of you, Madam, is, for a ſhort Time to afford me the Protection of your Houſe.

Moſt gladly, my dear, let us betake ourſelves thither this Inſtant, before he comes and ſurprizes you. Come, my Chariot is now at the Door.

Permit me, Madam, to ſtep as far as the Garden Gate, and excuſe myſelf to the young Farmer, who is waiting for me there with my Cloak: I'll make haſte and attend you.

At your own Time.

SCENE IV.

I have made free with ſome of his Worſhip's Flowers; there is no Robbery in that I truſt. She ſtays a long while methinks! ſure no Accident has betided her! I am fit to think his old Honour does not bear an honeſt Mind towards her; he is always hankering about our Houſe, and I am ſure, before Mrs. Clara was with us, he never us'd to come to Father's, except upon Rent-day. I don't know what ails me; I am not half the Lad I was awhile ago; I neither eat, nor ſleep, nor work as I us'd to do; and as for Wakes and Paſtimes and ſuch like, lackaday! I have no longer any Heart for them, or any thing elſe.

Oh! ifackins! I am glad you are come, Mrs. Clara: Look here; I have been plaiting a Garland for you to wear at the Harveſt-Home to-night, if you are ſo mind⯑ed to accept it.

Thank thee, Henry; I'll wear it for thy ſake.

That's kind now.—But come, will you be walking homewards: Father and Mother will wonder what's be⯑come of us.

Alas! Henry, I came to bid you farewel. Some Reaſons which I can't explain to you, oblige me to take a haſty Leave of your Father and Mother, and depart this Night. Well, Henry, give me my Things.—Commend me kindly to the good Folks; tell them I'll call in the Evening, and ſettle Matters with them to their Satisfaction:—as for thee, my good Lad, I deſire you will accept this Purſe; I hope it will compenſate for the Trouble I have given thee, and the Ill-will thou haſt got from thy Landlord on my Account.—Why, what doſt weep for, Henry?

My Heart's too full to tell you; and I want Under⯑ſtanding to expreſs myſelf—but tho' I am a poor Lad, I ſcorn to be a mean one, and take Money. No, Mrs. Clara, I wou'd not touch your Purſe, if it was full of Diamond-Jewels. I ſee you deſpiſe me by your Offer.

Far from it, Henry, believe me; nor will I preſs it further upon you, as I ſee it hurts you.

It does indeed—and not that only, but your leaving us, Mrs. Clara. I know it won't arguefy what ſuch a ſimple Clown as I am can ſay to a Perſon of your Breed⯑ing—but I beſeech you to tell me, wherein Father or Mother, or I have offended you! If any thing's amiſs, that they can remedy, they'll be proud to do it, I'll vouch for them—and as for me, If I be in Fault, I aſk your Pardon heartily on my Knees.

Nothing is amiſs, nothing. Kneel not to me, young Man; your Humility, your Tenderneſs oppreſſes me. Neither thou, nor thy Father, nor Mother, nor any of you have ever offended me: on the contrary, I owe you all, (eſpecially thee, Henry) my Thanks for a thouſand Services, which are ten times more valuable, as I am ſure they ſpring from your Heart.

'Tis enough: I ſubmit. May Heaven protect you wherever you go?

SCENE I.

So, ſo, good People! this ſounds well; Muſic light⯑ens Labour.—Sit ſtill, ſit ſtill—you've Work enough in hand, and Ceremony will but add to it.

Heaven bleſs you, my young Maſter, we were drink⯑ing a Can to your Health, upon your coming home; and the Sun beating ſo main hot in the Field yonder, we were fain to lay ourſelves down under this Beechen Thic⯑ket.—Margery, why duſt'nt ſpeacke to his Honour?

Gad a' mercy! ſpeacke to 'un? Why I ha' danc'd him in my Arms when he was a Babe, as poor as I am, many's the good Time.

Ay, thee haſt ſo—why I ha' work'd in this Field, ſimple as I ſtand here, any Time theſe Thirty Years, and I hope to do ſo Thirty Years longer, an' it pleaſe Heaven.

I hope thou wilt, honeſt Man! There is ſomething to be merry with when your Day's Work is at an End: we muſt not muzzle the Ox—as the Proverb ſays. Happy People! how much more enviable is your Lot than mine!

We humbly thank your Honour for your Bounty.

What have we here? A Woman maſk'd! And a fair one ſhe ſhou'd be.—Do any of you know who ſhe is?

No, Sir, no: We have ſeen her in and about this Grove ever ſince Morning-break; and we are apt to think (poor Soul) ſhe is not in her right Mind; one or two of us 'coſted her, but ſhe was not much for talking, ſo we took no further 'count of her.

If that ſhou'd be the Caſe, the poor Wench may want ſome Aſſiſtance; I'll follow her and ſee.

For my peart, I'll neither meddle nor make with her; Dame is ſure to lead me ſuch a Life.

Come, Neighbours, let's to Field; now Simon's abſent I am Strokeſman for to-day; nay, but come along. Let's be merry and wiſe, as they ſay; ſome Work, ſome Play; 'twill laſt the longer.

SCENE IV.

How my Heart flutters at the Sight of Frederick! He ſeem'd ſtruck with my Appearance; ſurely he will follow me: Under this Diſguiſe I will endeavour to diſcover the real State of his Heart: ſhould my Suſpicions of his Falſhood prove true, this diſtracted Habit will then properly become my Condition. Hah! he's here.—

I follow'd you, Child, to know if you ſtood in need of any Aſſiſtance.—Who are you? and why do you wander about maſk'd, and in that fantaſtical Habit?

Save you, Sir, may the Sun-beam never ſcorch you by Day, nor the Dew-damps ſtrike you by Night: for the Stars tell ſtrange Tales, and, if you are falſe-hearted, Perjury is wrote on the Face of the Moon, and every Owl-ey'd Wizard can read it. For my own Part, I care not who ſees my Face; 'tis honeſt, and ſuch as Na⯑ture made it; but there are Spies abroad, and therefore I go maſk'd.

Alas! poor Wench, thy Reaſon is diſſeated. Have you no Friends in this Neighbourhood to take Care of you?

I had a Friend, Sir; my Soul lov'd him, and my Reaſon approved—but he forſook me, and I loſt my Wits and my Heart together.

There are no Tokens of Inſanity in that Expreſſion. There is ſome Myſtery under that Maſk; I'll queſtion her further—

Then you have lov'd—unſucceſsfully lov'd:—therein I pity you;—our Fortunes in that are alike. I myſelf adored the faireſt of her Sex.

The faireſt did you ſay?—Was ſhe indeed the faireſt?

I thought her ſo.—Her Air reſembled yours; her Stature much the ſame; and her Voice ſo near upon a Pitch with yours, that, when I hear you ſpeak, methinks I am preſent with her.

Is it poſſible ſhe cou'd be inſenſible to your Paſſion?

She has forgot her Madneſs; I'll encourage this Ad⯑venture.

Alas! you ſearch too deeply—regardleſs of her Vows, ſhe is married, and I am abandoned and undone.

Married! did you ſay? Is ſhe married?—What can he mean? Wretch that I am, I am miſtaken, and he loves another.

You muſe.—But whom do I ſpeak this to, and what? Come, unmaſk; if your Features correſpond with your Limbs, 'tis cruel to conceal them.

Not for the World, I beſeech you.—Suffer me to aſk one Queſtion more for Curioſity's Sake: What was your Miſtreſs's Name?

Prithee, Child, (for I ſpeak to thee now as a rational Creature) what Motive can'ſt thou have for aſking me that Queſtion?

No ill one, believe me; yet I confeſs I am deſirous to have it reſolved.

Sure I have not made a Conqueſt of this poor Wench's Heart without knowing it; her Enquiries wou'd almoſt lead me to ſuſpect it.

Well, I know no Reaſon there is for concealing my Miſtreſs's Name, ſince ſhe is now another's:—It was Amelia Hartley.—You are now poſſeſs'd of my Story; which I know not how you have drawn from me. I muſt now leave you; if you have any Afflictions, I ſincerely compaſſionate you, but In⯑ſanity I hope is not amongſt them. There is my Purſe; much may it comfort you! ſo farewel!—

Hold Sir! Your Liberality is truly amiable, but I need it not; take your Purſe; and if you are not afraid to give me the Meeting between the Hours of nine and ten in the Evening, I may perhaps communicate to you ſome Tidings, that will both ſurprize and pleaſe you.

Between the Hours of nine and ten this Evening?—

Preciſely.—

I will not fail to meet you: Farewel.

SCENE III.

Don't be frighten'd, Mrs. Clara; 'tis I; 'tis a Friend.

Henry!—What makes thee here?

Thank Heaven ſhe's not ſo far gone, but what ſhe knows me.—(I beg pardon, Mrs. Clara, for my Bold⯑neſs)—How ſhe ſtares!—Alas my Heart bleeds for [21] her! Do be perſuaded to return home: We are broken-hearted at loſing you.—I'll watch you Night and Day, if you need it.

How came you to know me, and to follow me hither?

Lackaday, how ſhou'd I fail knowing you? Don't be angry with me, but I have followed you moſt Part of the Day, yet feared to accoſt you till now, that I ſee you have been in Diſcourſe with the young Squire: Fine Folks I know have ſometimes foul Thoughts; and in ſo lone a Place as this is, I was fearful he might offer at ſome Rudeneſs; if that had been the Caſe, I wou'd have been your Defender; nay I was about to come forth when he attempted to unmaſk you, for, great as he is, I ſhou'd not ſtand by and ſee you wrong'd by any one.

This honeſt Creature's Affection to me is diſtreſſing.

How ſorry am I to ſee you thus! What a piteous Change have a few Hours brought about! Is a Mind like your's ſo ſoon overthrown? Better be born a Clown like me without Wit or Underſtanding to loſe, than be learned to no better Purpoſe than this.

Why ſhou'd I conceal any thing from this honeſt Creature? Come hither, Henry; don't be alarm'd: my Reaſon is no worſe than it was; I am not mad.

Oh! the Bleſſing! may I believe it? Then what do you do with all this diſtracted Geer about you?

That you ſhall know in due Time; but tell me now, my good Lad, how can I reward the Services you have done me; pecuniary Gratifications, it ſeems, your Spi⯑rit diſdains; what can I do for you!

Nothing; I have deſerv'd nothing.

Nay, but,—conſult your Heart.

I dare not; it is not fit I ſhou'd.

How, Henry! is there any doubt then of its Ho⯑neſty?

No, Mrs. Clara, I hope I am honeſt; but I am ſure I am unfortunate.

Alas poor Youth! Is it in my Power to alleviate your Unhappineſs?

Don't aſk me that Queſtion; I am but a Clown, and my Anſwer may offend you.

I ſee the Cauſe of your Uneaſineſs, and have long regretted it.—I'll tell thee what, Henry, you and I have long been Friends; 'tis ſit I ſhou'd now diſcloſe [23] to you a Secret. I am not, as you conceive me, a low-born Country Wench, but am of ſome Rank and con⯑ſiderable Fortune. The Concluſion you will draw from thence may be uſeful.—I ſee you are in Surprize at what I have told you, but if you will walk with me to Mrs. Olivia's, I'll tell you why I have aſſum'd this Appearance of Madneſs.

I will attend you, Madam.—Heigh ho! how baſe am I not to rejoice at this Diſcovery!

When I relate my Story more at large to you, Hen⯑ry, you will find that all the Unhappineſs I have known in Life has ſprung from Love. 'Tis a dangerous Paſ⯑ſion, and I wou'd caution every Friend of mine againſt it.

SCENE IV.

And ſo, Peter, you can hear no tidings of this Girl Clara yet?

No, your Honour, not I: 'tis ſarten ſure ſhe have left the Farmer's, that's one Thing; but where ſhe has be⯑taken herſelf, that's another Thing. For my Part I have been at a power of Places in queſt of her, up and down, all over the Village, quite from Dame Treacle's Shop at the further End of it, to the Parſon's Houſe here by the Church.

Was ever Accident ſo croſs! every thing in ſo fair a Poſture for Succeſs: the Wind in my favourite Corner, South-weſt, due as it can blow. Sciſſon's Barometer a full Degree on the Riſe ſince Morning, and my Pulſe at leaſt ten Thumps in a Minute by a Stop-Watch quicker than it was at our laſt Interview; I ſhou'd certainly have retriev'd that Miſadventure.—I cannot conceive, Peter, where this provoking Wench has conceal'd herſelf.

Sure I was never ſo nonpluſh'd before; and yet I think under Favour, your Worſhip, I can give a gueſs where ſhe is.

Why, where is ſhe, think you?

Why I'll ſtake my Head to a Turnip that ſhe is in our great Pond: Simon ſaw her walk that way, and 'tis my Thoughts ſhe has drowned herſelf for Love; for your Worſhip well knows no young Girl can have any Buſineſs by the Water-ſide, unleſs with that Intent.

Peter, leave me. There are Moments, in which no wiſe Man cares to be overlooked. Of a certain this Clown has hit it; poor fond Soul! I ſhall never have an eaſy Moment more. But ſoft! what do Socrates, Seneca, [25] and Sir Thomas More adviſe upon theſe Occaſions? Have I no Memorandum?—Phaw! a Fig for ſuch a Pack of Grey Beards: what ſignifies what a Man ſays in a Caſe that can never be his own? It has ever been my Fortune to be admired by the Fair Sex; but ſo melan⯑choly a Proof of it I never met with before. I'll in⯑ſtantly give Orders for dragging the Pond: ſhe is moſt certainly drown'd: I cannot chuſe but weep for her.

SCENE V.

Heyday! who have we got here? Is the whole Pa⯑riſh ſtung with the Gadfly? What's the Matter with you all?

Why theſe honeſt People have a ſtrange Story to tell you, Sir Antony.

Yes, and pleaſe your Worſhip, we have a ſtrange Story to tell you: But Things have gone very croſs with us all this Harveſt through; a Power of mildew'd Grain—Farmer Chaff's Horſes are in a Manner eat up with the [26] Botts, one and all—and Maſter Grubb's Cows are ſorely peſter'd with the Tail-worm; ſo that we are fit to think, pleaſe your Worſhip, that the poor Beaſties are Hag-ridden, as it were.

Well, Child, is it you have done all this? I ſee you are a Dealer in the Black Art.—

Noa, your Honour, we don't directly ſay ſo; but we were a little dubilous about the young Woman, ſo we pray your Worſhip to examine her a bit.

O Neighbours, leave her to me; I'll examine her.

We are much beholden to your Honour: Pray you now, young Gentleman, aſk her why ſhe wears that black Thing athwart her Face, whereof I can take my Bible Oath on't that ſhe is ſometimes as ſightly a young Wo⯑man to look at, as ever my Eyes beheld; and why ſhe keeps hanging about the Grove at the Bottom of the Paddock; there can be no good Intent in that.

Go, ye ſimple People, get home, and leave the young Woman with us.

I am aſham'd, Gaffer Dowling, to ſee an old Man like you make himſelf ſuch a Fool.

Well, young Woman, let us know why you are maſk⯑ed, and what your Buſineſs is in theſe Parts?

My Profeſſion, Sir, is Fortune-telling; I deal with the Stars.

I rather believe 'tis with the Moon.

Give me your Hands.

O tranſporting Surprize! Do I behold thee? do I a⯑gain embrace thee, my dear, my deſtin'd Amelia?

What do I hear? And are you, that was my Clara, the Daughter of Sir William Hartley?

I am, Sir, and can you be generous enough to forgive my Preference of your Son before you?

Oh! no more of that I charge you 'Tis well we are wiſer than our Children, for certainly they have ſome un⯑accountable Advantages over us.

O my Amelia, I have News for you, which I flatter myſelf you will be pleaſed with: your Friends are impa⯑tient to receive you, and have conſented to our Union.

Then is my Joy compleat. Now had I but a Friend that cou'd relate to them this Day's Events, as they really have happen'd—

You have a Friend, Madam, an humble and a faith⯑ful one; ready to undertake that Office, or any other you can lay upon him.

I thank thee, my good Henry, and will accept your Services. Frederick, I have much to tell thee of this Youth, whom I deſire you will love for my ſake.

I know him well: his Fortune ſhall be my Care.

Thank Heaven! I ſhall now be abſent, when ſhe is married.

Sir Antony, as I croſt your Lawn I found your Harveſt Folks aſſembled at their Sports; the Serenity of the Evening, and the Chearfulneſs of the Scene, compoſe the moſt agreeable Sight in Nature.

Oh! by all Means, Sir, let us go thither; Joy is pleaſing in whatſoever Shape it appears.

Let this then be a Day of general Happineſs!